


No Control

by thegirlwthekittentattoo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Harry Styles, Feminization, Harry in Lingerie, Lingerie, M/M, Top Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23309803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwthekittentattoo/pseuds/thegirlwthekittentattoo
Summary: It starts with a picture of Harry in Rolling Stone, standing in the Queen Anne’s lace and wild carrot, denim jumpsuit unbuttoned to his navel, tits all out on display. It starts as a joke; it doesn’t end there.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 360





	No Control

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically 3000 words about Harry Styles’ tits. Enjoy. 
> 
> (And it’s called “No Control” because I have none. Zero. No one asked for this, I’m just leaving it here for the universe to enjoy.)
> 
> I’m eternally thankful for SoManyDirections, without whom I never would have taken a second look at our lord and savior Harry E Styles.

It starts as a joke.

They’re curled together in the catch of the sheets, where they can just be without the constant flash of cameras, the constant questions, and Louis has the interview with _Rolling Stone_ open on his laptop.

“Two things about English rock stars never change: They love Southern California, and they love cars,” Louis reads, and then snorts, shaking his head and trailing a lazy hand down the back of Harry’s head, fingers light on the tanned skin of his back. “Bit trite,” he says by way of criticism, reaching for his drink.

“Got magazines to sell,” Harry mumbles from Louis’ armpit, where he is half asleep.

“Americans do love to think everyone loves them the most,” Louis remarks idly, tracing a finger up and down Harry’s spine as he scrolls through the article. “You’re going to have them fucking drooling, babe,” he adds. “These pictures. Filthy.”

Harry grins, propping his chin on Louis’ chest. “You like those? Told Ryan they were thirst traps.”

“You were right.” Louis scrolls through the article some more, lapsing into silence, and Harry burrows back down into his armpit, resurfacing when Louis makes a sound — a sound he used to only make when Harry was sweat soaked and panting, spread out under him, Louis’ palm pressed to the crease of his mouth, pressing pressing — “fuck.” It’s raw and guttural, hoarse, and Harry’s not even sure Louis meant to say it out loud.

“Alright?” Harry asks lazily, peeking up again. 

Louis has the laptop paused on the picture Ryan took of Harry in the weeds by the ocean, out in the Queen Anne’s Lace and wild carrot, the denim jumpsuit hugging his hips, splayed open at the collar. “Pure sex,” Louis says, and Harry hides his grin in Louis’ shoulder.

“Thought you’d like that one.”

“Fucking _indecent_ ,” Louis says, kissing the top of Harry’s head. “Tits all on display like that.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “You like my tits,” he accuses, tilting his face up for Louis to kiss him, and Louis does.

**

So, it starts as a joke. Only, Louis can’t stop thinking about it — about the curve of Harry’s pecs cupped in the denim, the barest hint of a nipple. It’s downright obscene, and as Louis goes about his business in London and Harry in LA, he can’t stop thinking about it. 

They have to be careful. There’s too much at stake to come clean about it, and it is, Louis admits, nice to have a little (big) secret from everyone but their immediate families, nice to keep this, if nothing else, out of the spotlight.

It’s nice to get to be authentically himself with at least one person, nice to be able to wank off to Harry Styles and know that he is the only person who’s coming near that arse, regardless of what the gossip rags say.

It’s nice, also, to have someone who _knows_ him — has known him since he was 18. Nice to have someone who doesn’t judge him, who loves him, he supposes, regardless of kink or scandal. 

So when Louis texts Harry _been thinking about your tits_ and gets back a laughing face emoji in response, he’s a little hurt.

 _I’m serious._ Then he sends a close up of the sun-kissed skin, hugged just a little too personally by the denim. _This is the most recent star of the wank bank_. 

Because they’re busy and they might _want_ to spend every second with each other, but they can’t. Not if they’re going to keep each other a secret, and they have to keep each other a secret. Have to keep brushing questions about the other off in interviews. Keep dodging questions about love lives. Keep— well. They each have a very extensive wank bank, is all.

Harry doesn’t respond at first. Louis doesn’t think he’s going to, and is composing a long drawn out _I was only joking_ text message when —

The image is clearly shot with a cell phone, and it’s clearly Harry — the sparrows across his collarbones are telling enough, even if the slightly stubbly chin in the foreground of the shot wasn’t, the tug of a dusky pink lip between teeth wasn’t. It’s undeniably Harry, but it’s what he’s _doing_ that makes Louis’ breath catch in his throat; he’s got his shoulders rolled forward, his pecs caught in the black lace of a bra, skin dimpling just a little, the golden cross caught against his tanned skin and _fuck._

 _Bout time you got those tits under control_ , Louis texts back, one rough hand cupped around his cock, eyes on the picture.

 _No control_ Harry texts back, and then, a minute later, a winky emoji, and two minutes later, a picture of Harry on his back, legs crossed at the knee, green eyes boring into the camera, nails — painted black— dusting the juncture of his throat, just above the press of the lace against his skin. 

“Fuck,” Louis chokes out before he’s _coming,_ fully, just right there in his bed, all over his chest.

***

It starts as a joke, quickly turns into a kink, and then, because they’re over 5,000 miles apart, it evolves into a game. In the two weeks Harry’s in LA and Louis is in London, Louis gets no less than seventeen pictures of Harry in various lingerie, delicate lace cupping his — well, his pecs, but his _tits_ . He sends them at the most inopportune times — in the middle of business meetings, or when Harry knows Louis is going to be otherwise occupied. He always sends a little kissy face emoji, or a winky face, and after a day where Louis got exactly eight shots of Harry in this delicate pink set, complete with some ridiculous gauzy robe (which has Harry written all over it, though not literally), Louis texts him _we need to talk about your use of emojis_. Harry sends back a flirty picture of his — well, his décolletage, for want of a better word, sparrows dipping down against Harry’s smooth, tan skin, the pink like a lovely flush, and a middle finger emoji.

(That afternoon, when Louis has sent everyone away, and he’s alone in his bed, Louis comes exactly three times, choking off his cries, like he’s saving them for when Harry gets home.)

Suffice to say, Louis has had _quite enough_ of the teasing, and so when Harry’s flight gets into Heathrow and he texts Louis from the Uber _on my way home_ , complete with a snapshot of Harry’s shoulder, bare except for the pale blue of a bra strap against it, Louis decides he’s had about enough of all the teasing.

He wants to meet Harry at the Uber, but he resists (can’t risk it, and besides, Harry always takes the Uber to a few blocks away, to avoid suspicion. Have to be careful, even (especially) at two in the morning.)

Louis can’t deny the swoop of relief he feels when he hears Harry at the door, keys jingling, the other man humming a few bars of what Louis is pretty sure is Orleans’ “Still the One.” Cute.

“How was your flight?” he calls from the bedroom, once he’s sure the door’s shut.

“Fine,” Harry says, strolling into the bedroom and letting his bags drop. “Long.” He collapses on the bed next to Louis, wrapping his arms around his waist. “All kinds of fucked about what time it is.”

Louis traces his fingers through Harry’s curls lightly. “Three in the morning,” he supplies helpfully.

Harry groans and crawls up the length of Louis, unspooled in front of him, so he can kiss his lips. “Well,” he says. “Feels like it’s about seven in the evening.”

“My poor jet lagged baby,” Louis murmurs, tugging lightly on one of Harry’s curls. His favorite — the one that hangs over his left eyebrow.

Harry _hmphs_ and shifts up onto his knees, tugging his T-shirt off. He’s grimy from travel, feels grainy and greasy, like there’s a layer of dirt on him. Travel dirt. Still, he’s decked out in —

“Oh,” Louis breathes, reaching up to cup a hand under the pale blue lace.

Harry smirks, but there’s something a little vulnerable in his eyes, something that questions if Louis _wants_ this, wants him like this.

“Fucking _spectacular_ , babe,” Louis murmurs, getting up on his knees so he and Harry are eye-level— or, as close to eye-level as they get. “Bout time you got some fucking support for those fantastic tits of yours.”

Harry laughs, a little breathless, and cocks his head to the side and — 

Louis is _gone_ for him, for his beautiful boy. “Can I touch?” he asks, despite the fact that he already _has_ touched, has already been all kinds of personal with that icy blue lace, knows how it feels — rough and sweet under his palm.

Harry nods, doesn’t trust his voice, just — “ _please_ —“ barely audible. “Please touch me.”

And Louis does, cups both of Harry’s perfect tits, one in each palm, kisses his mouth and then down, across his collarbones, to the perfect wedge of space, the valley between Harry’s chest, licks a stripe up the warm skin, shudders at the scrape of the lace against his cheek. “Fucking _fantastic_ , babe,” he murmurs, and then kisses down to where the lace meets Harry’s skin, scraping his teeth along that edge. “Look at you,” Louis breathes, and then pushes Harry back against the bed. 

Harry kicks his way out of his trousers, reaching for Louis on instinct— they know how this goes, but there’s an edge now, and every time the lace scrapes against Louis’ skin, he gets a little harder, a little more into it.

It’s good sex — good sex, and after, Harry dangles the bra by a finger. “Good surprise?”

“Not a fucking surprise,” Louis mumbles into the pillow. “But sure.”

“Well then I’m not wearing Christi for you ever again,” Harry sniffs, fucked out and so happy— so relaxed, fully himself.

“You named your bra _Christy_?” Louis asks, squinting up at him. 

“No,” Harry says. “ _Christi_. With an i, not a y. You were spelling it wrong, I could tell.”

***

They’re in the middle of sex when he says it. Harry’s pressed down into the bed, Louis fucking into his arse, Harry letting out little grunts of air — _uh uh uh, like that, yeah_ — with each rock of Louis’ hips when he takes a shuddering breath in, stretches himself out like a cat, and says “come on my tits.”

Louis does not come on his tits. Louis chokes out a _jesus fucking christ_ and comes in Harry’s arse.

“Fuck,” Harry says, and Louis collapses against him, breathing heavily. 

“Fuck,” he agrees.

**

“Do you wish I were a girl?”

They’re in bed in LA. It’s still early — the sun has barely started its ascent. Louis is curled around Harry like an errant parentheses, Harry’s back to his chest. They’ve been awake awhile, jetlagged, just listening to each other’s breathing.

“Or— d’you miss girls? Because — because I can —“

“No,” Louis says calmly, one arm cupped around Harry’s chest. He presses a kiss to the curve of Harry’s shoulder. He buries his face down in Harry’s shoulderblade. “No. Love you just the way you are.”

“Just, the tits thing —“

“If it bothers you I can stop.”

“No, that’s not it.” Harry’s quiet for a minute, and then rolls over in the bracket of Louis’ arms. “It’s not that. Just — I mean, y’know I don’t — mind a bit of gender bending. Gender fluidity.”

“Mmhmm,” Louis says, slides the inside of his foot up Harry’s calf. “I saw your Met Gala outfit.”

Harry smirks. “Just —“

“Just a kink thing, really,” Louis says quietly. “Or - or not _just_ a kink thing, but — a way to appreciate your body in all its… many varieties.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of shapeshifter.”

“You are,” Louis says, and kisses the cup of Harry’s throat. “You’re the shape of my heart.”

Harry makes a retching motion, but then his face gentles and he crowds into Louis’ space. “You’re the shape of my heart, too.”

“I know,” Louis says. 

“Even if my heart is the shape of a giant phallus.”

“You do love a good dicking down.”

Harry makes a face. “Well when you say it like that—“

Louis laughs and kisses Harry’s mouth, up the side of his face, back down to the curve of his jaw.

They have sloppy morning sex, Harry riding Louis slow, Louis hands cupped around his — around his tits.

When Harry comes, he falls apart easy like breathing, chest heaving, trembling, green eyes like a muddy forest on Louis’ as he rolls his hips down hard, taking all Louis has to give him.

**

They’re busy — they’re _celebrities_ , of course they’re busy. Point is, it’s like three weeks before they see each other again, overnight in a hotel in Chicago, of all places.

They’re careful about it — rooms on separate floors, avoiding the cameras, slipping key cards to each other’s most trusted security. Louis slips into Harry’s room sometime after 4 in the morning, only to find —

“Oh,” he breathes, and just — stands there.

Harry’s spread out on the bed, body stretched, the moth on his belly reaching up into the cups of a delicate butter yellow confection, Harry’s arms stretched out above his head, green eyes hooded by heavy lids.

“Hi,” Harry says, like he’s not trussed up and stretched out like a fucking dessert. 

“Hi yourself,” Louis says, and then he’s on him, thigh pressed between his legs, kissing them both breathless.

They take their time, kissing until Harry is a mewling mess under him, and then Louis is dragging his lips down from his mouth, across the buttery lace, pressing his face into the warm skin of Harry’s chest, rubbing his cheek against it. “Fucking fantastic,” he murmurs and then kisses down, down to the base of Harry’s cock, pressing a soft kiss against the tip.

“Louis,” Harry breathes, hips rocking, and this — these are the moments that Louis wishes he could just stop, just live in it forever, Harry soft and open and _wanting_ him, only him, fantastic little tits on display. 

Louis bites his lip and then he’s straddling Harry, their cocks flush against each other, and he’s cupping the buttery lace, dragging it down to reveal Harry’s perky, dusky little nipple. He brushes his thumb across it, hums happily, and then ducks to take it into his mouth.

Harry cries out, choked off and perfect, hands going to Louis’ curls. “Louis—“

Louis ignores him, biting the nub quickly and then pulling back a little, sucking a dark mark into the curve of flesh. “Perfect little tits,” he says, his voice a growl, and Harry whimpers, honest to god whimpers, his cock jerking between them.

“Louis, _please_ —“

“Please what, pretty baby?” Louis asks, ducking back down to wrap his lips around Harry’s perfect little nipple.

“Don’t tease. Don’t — ah— _fuck_ —“

Louis hums, scrapes his teeth across the nub, slides a hand down between them to tug at Harry’s cock and—

“Come on my tits.” It’s gasped out, half a moan, something dragged out of the cave of Harry’s throat. “Please— please come— come on my tits.”

Louis is rough — shoving Harry down onto the bed, and Harry hits the bed with a bounce, mouth falling open as he _moans_ , deep and delicious, hands raking up his sides, up to cup the buttery lace, shoving his pecs together and —

“Fuck,” Louis groans. “Fucking _shit_ —“

“Please,” Harry is panting, half undone. “Please, please come on my tits, please, Lou— _fuck_ —“

And Louis does, jerks himself once, twice, and then comes, rough and hot on Harry’s chest, painting him in ropes of white across the yellow lace as Harry moans and bucks, his head falling back. Louis has a second to look at the long expanse of his throat, want to kiss him and then Harry is coming, untouched, his cock bouncing between them, belly tight like a drum, Harry panting _Lou- Lou- Lou_ — like something holy, something perfect, a prayer.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your time! I’d love to hear what you thought!


End file.
